


Elsewhere: Belle

by ZabbieQ



Category: Starlight Express - Phillips/Stilgoe/Webber
Genre: But since I reference Belle's canon occupation I put the T rating, F/M, Gen, I see the content as being PG, Sleeper with a heart of gold
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-18
Updated: 2018-04-18
Packaged: 2019-04-24 17:41:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,594
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14360388
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ZabbieQ/pseuds/ZabbieQ
Summary: [Original London inspired] After how horribly Belle treated Poppa in her youth, she couldn't understand why he was so nice to her now





	Elsewhere: Belle

**Author's Note:**

> Although many fans like to refer to the train yard as "the Apollo Victoria yard" or "the AV," I personally don't. Nobody can tell me who was the first fan to come up with the idea, and so I can't credit them for it. (I once had 9 chapters of a 15 chapter fic stolen and posted on Wattpad before I stopped the plagiarist. As I don't like having my ideas used without getting credit, I try not to inflict that upon other people, even if that "AV yard" person probably isn't online anymore.) That's why I choose to refer to the setting as Wilton Yard (which is actually the street that the Apollo Victoria Theatre is on).

_Belle Mallet, have you completely lost your mind?_ the old sleeping car thought wryly as she crawled across the pile of coals to find a comfortable spot. Already her gloves, her torn red dress and single fishnet tight on her left leg were covered in black marks and would be joined by more just as soon as she bedded down. The business mind in her said she ought to be on her section of tracks, attracting potential new customers. Some trucks were desperate enough to get it from a peeling carriage, and she could use the cash.

But  _he_  had taken the time to come down to offer her his coal pile as a place of sanctuary.

"All kinds of trains comin' in for the race tonight," he had said as she scarfed down the carton of hot soup he had brought along just for her. "Some not so nice. If you want to hang out there, you can."

"I can get by," she had replied around the chunks of vegetables, feigning disinterest. It was true enough anyway; Belle had long learned to take care of herself, even before the first diesel brutes had started rolling from the factories.

However, he had given her a soulful look which radiated genuine concern. "I'd hate for something to happen to you," the old steamer had said. "My son's racing. You know, Rusty? Maybe you can come watch the race with the Rockies and me. They're fond of you, you know."

He had left her soon after, and Belle had dismissed his offer at the time. She hated charity. No matter how low she had sunk, she still had her pride. However, as the racing hour approached, and the shouts and clanking of the gathering rolling stock increased and caused Belle's old head to throb, the red sleeping car knew her condition would be bad for business. Especially if she got one engine who decided to run without paying afterwards.

So here she was on her back and alone, wishing she had remembered to grab a blanket to guard against the March night chill. The coal bunker was little more than a shed with one wall missing, illuminated by a tired yellow lamppost yards down the track.

 _How the mighty have fallen_ , she thought, not for the first time since she had come to Wilton Yard - and met  _him_  again. She was surprised he had even recognized her, even though she knew him from the minute she heard his deep voice and seen his kind smile - but why he would smile at her in her condition after everything that had happened between them, Belle could not fathom. Any other man would have been overjoyed to lord her failed life over her or would have shaken his head with pity, but Jim Watt McCoy did neither of those things. He just came to her section of the fuel dump with clean blankets and food for all of Control's disused rolling stock, treating her and the rest of them with dignity. Belle sometimes wondered if that was even worse.

Belle stared up at the dark sky and the dusting of stars which the feeble lamppost could not outshine. Jim McCoy would have said the Starlight worked in mysterious ways, but if that star-riding train existed, Belle felt running into the one engine she never thought she'd see again was the cruelest joke the celestial train had played on her. She had only come to Wilton Yard in desperation for food and shelter, but she had been there barely a week before some young diesel fools thought to mess with an old coach with broken windows. A set of boxcar brothers had come to her rescue and carried her down the track, promising to take her to someone they called Poppa.

Then she had been taken inside a warm, but tiny, shed barely big enough for one vehicle - and then the weathered face had turned toward her...

Belle pushed away the memory. Those did nothing for her headache. She laid a hand over her eyes like a sleep mask and listened to the wind, the only sound on the still track. In the olden days she had craved noise and excitement, never wanting to retire before midnight. Where now her lips were the only thing no man could ever claim, back then she had relished masculine attention, allowing handsome men to steal kisses on lazy summer nights and reaping the benefits as they competed to wine and dine her. When she had at last settled down...

 _Such an idiot little girl_ , Belle thought - the last one she remembered before she drifted to sleep.

* * *

"When can we expect wedding bells for you two?" asked Priscilla the private car above the noise of the jazz band and revelers in the luxurious room of the roundhouse, and she gave the two sweethearts a knowing grin. The prim purple passenger car usually behaved properly in public, earning her the name "Miss Priss" by friend and foe alike, but the prohibited giggle water she sipped appeared to have loosened her proverbial corset strings and brought a hint of red to her pale cheeks.

"You sound like my mother," Belle laughed before she tasted her own highball cocktail. The richer rolling stock were the best at getting contraband in a dry county.

Next to Belle, the tall steam engine, Ramblin' Jim McCoy, gave a half smile, fiddling with the panels of his metal suit and tie - which were a sight better than the overalls Belle had forbidden him from wearing to the party. "Just as soon as I have enough saved, I would gladly start picking a date," he said politely. His dark eyes slid to his coach. "If we are like-minded, of course."

"And you sound like my grandmother, Jim," Belle said, swatting him playfully with the tip of her fan.

Jim grinned down at her. "With a pretty face like yours, can you blame a fella for being impatient?"

She fluttered her long eyelashes at him. "But where's the fun in that, darling?"

Jim was a patient, devoted soul, and she almost hated to disappoint him, but marriage could not be further from Belle's mind. As much fun as they had racing together in regional championships, working their way to the international race, Belle had no interest in a domestic life when the whole world was her oyster. Her parents said a lady car should not race with a man unless they were married, not just betrothed, but in this modern age where women could smoke and drink alongside men, why did a young, pretty sleeping car have to burden herself with marriage in order to enjoy the thrill of the wind in her face as her engine sailed down the track ahead of their opponents?

Suddenly, Priscilla raised herself to her front wheels, grinning over the heads of the other guests. "Oh, Mr. Wheelturn and his latest fiancée are here. You two enjoy yourselves." The purple private car patted her brown hair and gave the race partners a last smile before she rolled toward the entrance.

Belle twirled her black locks, giving her beau a coquettish look. "Are you sulking now?"

Jim glanced at her, then the dancing and drinking trains, and finally his own wheels. "I think marriage can be its own fun," he replied quietly.

She tweaked his nose. "Just like a man," she teased. Off the race tracks, the two were opposites. Even though Jim tolerated Belle dragging him to tunnel speakeasies and high-society parties, the steamer never drank: he said it didn't sit well in his tank, and he would rather be soaring down the rails than chatting with high-brow rolling stock. He would stand quietly like a dull statue beside his coach while she flitted about, meeting new trains and enjoying a few puffs on her cigarette stick.

"If you're so impatient, you can always marry Vanessa." Belle nodded toward the shy wooden van who hung on the edge of the party, a wallflower among the social butterflies. She giggled at the grimace that crossed Jim's face.

Belle had met the girl truck a few months before at a race when Belle's weather-resistant racing skirt had torn. Vanessa had rushed over and offered to mend it, and since that day she tagged along to the races to carry Belle's change of clothes and to act as a kind of companion and chaperone to appease Belle's conservative parents. The sleeping car had invited the goods van to the party, hoping it would do something to bring her out of her shell, but even decked in the dress on loan from the first-class carriage, Vanessa seemed to have welded her back to Priscilla's decorative wall.

As the jazz band switched to a lively tune and young partners rolled excitedly to the dance floor, sparkling in the beams of the new electrical lights Priscilla's husband had installed, Belle had a sudden and deliciously wicked idea. She fluttered her eyelashes and traced the tip of her fan against her engine's artificial ear. "Speaking of dear Nessie, why don't you be an angel of mercy and ask the poor girl to dance, Jimmy?" she asked, giving her beau a playful pout. Before the locomotive could protest, Belle grabbed Jim's iron arm and pulled her reluctant engine toward her friend.

Vanessa looked up as the two approached, and a relieved smile appeared on her black-painted lips, showing the gap in her front teeth - and Belle noticed the shy glance her brown eyes sent Jim before she quickly (and guiltily) turned to Belle. "Are you having fun?" she asked in her slow, soft voice.

"Of course!" beamed Belle, gesturing her glass of forbidden hooch toward the festive trains around her. "I wouldn't miss this party for all the money in the world." She released Jim's arm and opened her pretty fan, a gift for herself which she had bought with her share of the race winnings. "And neither should you, dear."

Vanessa shook her head, fiddling with the decorative white feather on the riveted silver headache band Belle had forced her to wear around her black hair. "I'm not much for parties, Belle," she said apologetically.

"Neither is Jimmy," Belle replied. "That's why he wanted to come over to ask you to dance."

Vanessa's wide eyes shot to the handsome engine before they lowered. "Oh, I-I don't know this dance," she mumbled. "I'm all left wheels."

"It's just the Lindy hop," Belle laughed, pulling her friend's hands so that she rolled toward the engine. "Jimmy can teach you."

Vanessa gaped at Jim. If it were possible, Belle was sure her wooden frame would have caught fire from the heat which no doubt now warmed her thin face. "O-Oh, I c-couldn't - "

"Nonsense," Belle insisted. "Jim, don't just stand there. Be a gentleman."

Jim cast Belle a longing look before he reluctantly took both of Vanessa's gloved hands, seeming determined not to put his arm around her waist. "We can go slow to start, Ness," he mumbled.

Belle chuckled inwardly. She knew both Jim and Vanessa were far too loyal for Belle to be worried about a little dance, and it was good for a man to be put in his place.  _Let that be a warning, love_ , Belle thought as she rolled back toward Priscilla. Why should Jimmy ruin a nice evening with such boring topics as marriage?

She reached Priscilla as the private car excused herself from an engine with a fashionable parlor car who looked to be half his age. The sleeping car was about to make a clever remark to the purple carriage about the romance - when her eyes fell upon a steam engine near the entrance.

Belle stopped in her tracks. "Priscilla," she said softly, "who is  _that_?"

Priscilla barely glanced at the newcomer. "Malachie the Mallet engine - the Swiss racer. Not like him to be late." She shook her brunette head, a bit of the Priss emerging through her approaching stupor. "I suppose he has an excuse though. I heard his brother the baggage car caught a cold last night. Hopefully Monsieur Mallet will find another partner soon."

"He's  _the_  Swiss racer? In the international race?" Belle breathed, trying to recall everything she had ever heard about the steamer's fatherland, which was woefully little.

Priscilla nodded. "Yes, but I've heard he's bought a house by the seaside, not too far from where you work, Belle. He's been buying up stock like a boy buying lollipops and plans to move to America."

Belle listened intently to Priscilla, but her eyes remained glued to the new steamer. He looked like a work of Greek art sprung to life with a metal suit and tie to match. Blonde hair peeked out from a black fedora with a chimney emitting gentle puffs of smoke, the scent of which drifted dreamily across the room and tickled Belle's nose with the aroma of applewood, a stark contrast to the cheap coal Jim burnt. Gray eyes regarded the Lindy hoppers with a mirth that matched a wide smile which stretched boyishly across his tan face. He snapped his gloved hands to the beat, tapping his skate as if he were ready to grab the nearest coach and fly to the dance floor.

"He's quite handsome, don't you think?" asked Priscilla with a tipsy giggle.

"If you like that kind of look," answered Belle, giving her fan a quick flick to cool her cheeks.

The Swiss steamer shifted his attention from the dancers as if he could somehow sense their conversation, and his eyes met Belle's - and her throat tightened in a strangely delicious way.

"If he's here for the race, it will be good to say hello," Belle said as calmly as she could, even as her heart quickened in her wooden chest. "You must introduce me."

"Of course," said Priscilla, taking her arm and pulling her forward.

Out of the corner of her eye, Belle caught a glimpse of Jim and Vanessa still attempting their awkward dance among the more experienced couples, but then the sleeper looked again at Malachie Mallet and forgot everything else.

* * *

" _Awwwwwwwww, yeah_!" A booming voice echoed across the hills, snapping Belle out of her dream. She jolted to a sitting position, but she relaxed as she saw which gaggle of revelers had disturbed her slumber.

 _Guess he didn't think I'd come_ , Belle thought, settling back into the coal as she watched Jim McCoy hummed his way over to sit on the wooden buffer stop that capped the nearby track. The steamer would not have made such a racket if he had known a woman was trying to rest in the vicinity. Fortunately for him, her headache had passed with sleep.

"Hey, Poppa's gonna sing!" cried one of the Rocky brothers - Belle was fairly certain it was the eldest, Rocky One.

The other two boxcars, who dressed in similar boxer attire, pressed closer to their uncle-in-law. Belle could see there were two more trucks among the relatives, a sour-faced flat car and a large gray hopper with what looked like a white mob cap on his head.

"Poppa don't sing often," Rocky One grinned.

"But he do sing mean," his brothers finished with him.

Belle shut her eyes, listening to the rich voice as Jim begun one of his impromptu blues songs. Contrary to Rocky's claim, she could remember quite a number of occasions when he would hum a quiet love song when he thought Belle's parents weren't paying attention to their courting.  _Wonder what made him stop_.

Eventually the song finished, lingering in the air like a fading horn blast. Suddenly, Jim spoke, "Rusty, why you lookin' sad?"

"I got no hope," came a voice considerably higher than the elder's.

Belle's eyes snapped open, and she raised her head ever so slightly to see a younger steamer brake beside Jim.

So, this was him then.

She had seen the rusted switcher from afar a few times since she had arrived in Wilton Yard, but the wholesome son of Ramblin' McCoy had little reason (or inclination) to come to the seedier section of the fuel dump. Now his back was turned to her, but she could see he was small for a steamer. Some kind of round hat with a tiny chimney adorned his head, and he wore overalls and a tender like Jim. As Rusty talked with his father, going on about losing his race partner and needing another coach pronto, Belle noticed he made a lot of the same gestures the old man used.

 _'Rusty' is an understatement_ , Belle thought, shaking her head. What had begun as an affectionate nickname for a boy christened Russell had become a prophecy of sorts. From this distance, Belle wasn't sure if there was even an inch of untarnished metal on him. Even the racing helmet tucked under one arm had looked as every bit as rusted. Had his mother been alive to see it claim his body?

Jim reached out and patted his boy's arm. "We could find another coach for you, son."

"Yes, sir, we could," agreed the triplet boxcars, giving their cousin identical grins.

However, Rusty shook his head. "No way. Poppa, listen. It's too late."

Jim pushed himself to his wheels, and he did so, his head turned - and his eyes met Belle's. He paused, giving a small smile, to which Belle responded with a friendly shrug and a wink.

 _I'm here, you old lug. Now shut up and let me sleep_ , she thought, not unkindly.

Jim returned to his boy and stiffly grated his legs to close the distance between them. "Rusty," he said with a slight chuckle, "you got no faith. I'm a steamer. I was a champion once, and I can tell you the Starlight helped me through every race, whether I won or lost."

"Sure he did, Poppa," replied Rusty, but although his back still faced her, Belle thought she saw Rusty's pistons give a jaded pump.

Jim must have seen it too because he shook his head. "You're like the rest of them diesels and coaches. You're just blind."

"No, no, I see good," Rusty vented, clenching his fists. "I see without no coach, I got no chance in the race."

Belle saw a light appear on Jim's face. "Look behind you. What do you see?"

Rusty turned, and Belle felt something twist inside her stomach as she met a face which looked like a masculine version of Vanessa the goods van. Same wide eyes lined with black. Same nose. Same black lips which revealed a gap in his teeth.

"Nothin' but an old sleeping car," the young doppelganger said without surprise, as if he was used to seeing unknown rolling stock napping on his father's pile of fuel.

That was when it hit Belle. She froze, looking sharply at Jim. Was he really going to...

"Do you have an alarm bell?" Jim grinned.

He was.

"I do," confirmed Rusty.

His father slapped his back. "Then ring it, boy!"

"Ring that bell!" the Rocky brothers chimed, giving Belle knowing smiles.

Belle kept still, but her fingers curled around a piece of coal. Down-to-earth, straitlaced Jim Watt McCoy actually thought that his son taking a run-down carriage from the fuel dump into Wilton Yard's international championship race was a  _good_  idea?

Belle saw her distress mirrored on the Rusty's face. He spun toward his father, absolutely horrified. "I can't pull that," he whispered, obviously thinking Belle could not hear him. "It's peeling and, well…  _old_!"

* * *

Belle raised her head, frowning. Son of her former beau or not, no skinny rusted steamer got to call her "it" in this or any other lifetime. She pushed herself up to her knees. She did not even want to go and make a spectacle of herself on a race track in front of the entire world, but something about seeing that expression on Vanessa's son's face - the look of discovering something had crawled from the garbage pile into the middle of a clean shed - stirred up a fire inside her.

"Looks and youth ain't everything, sailor," she sniffed. "Experience is a quality that counts for a lot."  _The sad thing about experience is by the time you got it, usually it's all you got_ , she thought sardonically, but aloud she said, "I used to be the bee's knees, you know."

Rusty shuffled with his helmet and quickly touched the front of his round hat, giving her an awkward nod. "Uh, ah, I'm s-sure you were, ma'am. I just meant, uh, that is - " He looked at the Rockies. "Help?"

The one who was probably Rocky Three shook his head. "You're on your own, cuz."

Belle slowly got to her brown skates, ignoring the coal marks on her torn dress, the peeling paint, the tarnish on her silver wheel earrings, the broken windows. "I may not be much to look at now, son, but in my day, I could outlast the men-trucks in races. My wheels could go faster than any of them - and I always looked good doing it."

"She's right," Jim agreed, giving her an admiring look. "Belle was made to be the best."

"Like any Pullman car," the sleeper added, striding up to the rusted boy.  _Not that it helps me much now_ , she inwardly grimaced behind her stern stare. Once upon a time, men of different vehicle types lined up to fill her dance card. Now, they lined up for a different reason - but the boy didn't get to say anything against her without even knowing her first. "I may not be first class, but I ain't yet worst class, steam train." She gave him a sweeping glance, taking in the rusted bolts and panels. "I think you of all people should know older machines still got some life in them."

Belle saw self-reproach appear in his gaze, but then he turned away. "No, I'm out of it," he sighed. "I ain't got a chance in the race anyway. What's even the point?"

His father came close. "Only believe, son," he urged. "The Starlight Express will help you."

Rusty shot his father a dark look. "Oh, c'mon. You don't  _really_  believe all that stuff. Why would the Midnight Train care about some dumb race?"

"Because you care about it," his father replied firmly, "and he cares about you."

Rusty rolled his eyes before looking down at his rusted limbs. "He has a funny way of showing it," he said bitterly.

Jim gave his son a sympathetic look. "I know I wouldn't be alive today without his help. Don't you remember what your granny used to tell you?" His brown eyes began to twinkle with a look of hope. " _How many times have you found, though you were firm on the ground, still the world around you sways?_ " he said quietly, and his gaze drifted to the freight trucks surrounding him. " _You notice all that you've got does not add up to a lot and the way ahead's a maze_."

It was an old poem, one which Belle remembered the late Mrs. McCoy quoting to encourage vehicles in times of trouble. As Jim spoke, the Rockies drew closer as did the quiet big hopper who Belle had almost forgotten was there. Where Rusty's sooty face wore a cynical expression, enthusiasm and awed wonder appeared in each truck's wide eyes. The sour-faced flat car turned his attention to the brick attached to his belt via a chain, but although he gave a disinterested sniff, Belle could tell he was listening to the old man as well.

" _You've used everything inside you. So maybe it's time you tried to find a brand new power to shine a light_."

An odd sensation swept over Belle, and she remembered Mrs. McCoy's gentle voice - gone forever like the rest of the old world the sleeper had loved. " _A light to brighten up your darkest hour_ ," she said, supplying the next line.

Jim turned his head and gave her a soulful look. " _Starlight Express hears your distress, he's there, all around_ ," the steamer said, " _Starlight Express will answer you yes, he's waiting to be found_  - "

" _Control, Control!_ " The trains jumped as a nasal, childish voice exploded from the nearby speaker, one of several throughout Wilton Yard. " _Thirty seconds to the close of heat two! Engines report!_ "

Jim looked at Rusty. "Well, son?" he asked. "You've trained for months for tonight. You might not get the chance next year."

"You might be in the scrapyard in a fortnight," sneered the sour-faced flat car in what sounded like a Cockney accent, and one of the Rockies promptly smacked him.

Belle shot Jim a look, feeling a sudden rush of sympathy for both father and son. Exactly how long  _would_  Control let Rusty keep working before their unseen master thought to cut his losses and dismiss the neglected boy?

Rusty stepped away from them, gripping his helmet tighter, and looked up at the dark sky as if he were searching for a tangible sign from the Starlight Express. Just as Belle thought he had given up, Rusty turned and gently rolled to the wooden sleeper. He gave her a polite smile. "May I have the honor? Will you race with me?"

Belle hesitated, looking into the familiar black-rimmed eyes on Jim and Vanessa's doomed son. How could she humiliate herself and him by racing in her torn red dress and peeling paint in front of the entire railroad world? How could Jim expect his boy to take the sleeping car who had broken his heart and had rolled away with his Swiss rival only to become a splintering carriage who withheld only a kiss on her lips from any train who could pay her cheap fee?

But how could she not nod and help the rusted engine at a time he needed her after every horrible thing she had done to his father?

"Thank you kindly. I'd be proud to share in your race," she said, taking his holdings. "I won't disgrace you."

Rusty grinned, spun, and called out, "I'm here! Control, I'm coming!"

* * *

Two electric engines stood in the tunnel with their partners. Belle recognized the one with blond hair and green paint who stood at the front of the line as the man from the newspapers: he was Weltschaft the German Class 103 engine, the pride of Deutsche Bahn. Belle knew his original carriage, Diana the "DSG" dining car (the sleeper couldn't remember the German company's full name), had been one of the vehicles damaged in the Southern Tunnel collapse the night prior. Now Weltschaft stood with a woman in a red leotard cut high on her hips, unpainted gray legs, and windows on her limbs: some kind of circus car if Belle had to guess.

The other engine was tall and handsome with moisturized brown skin, stylish paints to match the metallic wig atop his checkered scalp, and a pencil thin mustache which resembled two lightning bolts. Instead of a normal racing helmet, he held a blue face guard with straps which no doubt would allow his magnificent hair to remain uncovered. The tall electric stood with a pretty pink observation car with a unique wig of blonde, pink, and black hair which matched a fancy pink dress with a skirt like a ballerina's tutu.

Rusty stopped in his tracks at the sight of the two whispering sweethearts. "What's she doing with  _him_?" he said through his teeth.

 _That's Pearl then_ , thought Belle, shooting Rusty a sympathetic look. The rival engine looked like a rock star, easily outshining the rusted switch engine. As Rusty started to roll into the tunnel, the electric engine gave Pearl's cheek a caress, causing the synthetic skin to glow a bright pink.

"Steam train!" the German engine suddenly barked. "Stand out there until it's time. We don't need smoke in the tunnel."

The red circus truck snickered beside him. Neither Pearl nor her partner gave them a second glance as Rusty begrudgingly pumped his pistons backward, retreating out of the tunnel and pushing Belle under the night sky.

"He looks ridiculous," Belle heard Rusty grumble, and the steamer shot his rival a dirty look before he fidgeted with his corroded helmet. "Why's she racing with him when he already has a coach? And electric trains have air horns, not whistles!"

Belle did not know what that meant, but in an effort to distract him, she said, "If you race half as good as Poppa, you're gonna be in the final tonight," she said. "That electric engine will be yesterday's newspaper on a trash pile."

Rusty glanced at her. "Poppa's been telling ya stories, huh?" He shrugged. "I ain't seen Poppa in a real race, but he says he won a lot." He rolled his arms and stretched his rusted body. "He says I'm just like him when I move."

Belle nodded. "You favor your ma in looks though."

Vanessa's thin nose wrinkled on her son's russet face. "Everybody says that," he said flatly, giving a jaded pump of one arm, "but Mama was built to look like her pa, so really I look like Grampa Steele - " He stopped and spun, realization appearing in his wide eyes. "You knew her?" he asked.

Belle looked away. "You might say I'm the reason your folks got hitched."

"Get out!" he said in pleasant surprise. "Then I really should be racing with ya - seein' as I wouldn't be here without ya," he laughed.

Belle tried to hide her wince. "What happened to Nessie?"

His grin faded. "Termites." He looked down. "We didn't know she had them until... " He swallowed and gave himself a shake. "What about you?" he asked quickly. "You got any family?"

Belle looked at her hands, touching her left ring finger through the fabric of her black gloves. The gold band that used to be there had long ago been pawned. "I had a husband. Now I don't. Life goes on."

"Yeah." He rubbed his corroded neck.

Belle suddenly frowned, realizing something. "Why isn't your papa rusted like you?"

Rusty grimaced. "Control only gave us the one shed, barely big enough for a flat car - and I wasn't gonna let Poppa sleep in the rain," he said firmly. "So, I sleep outside. And got like this."

Belle stared at him, shock and admiration coursing through her. She instantly recalled that fateful day when her racing dress had torn and how a strange, shy goods van had rushed forward to help a coach she had never spoken to. After that Vanessa had come with them to their races to assist Belle with her clothing, but she had looked for neither payment nor fame from associating with two racing heroes. She had been content knowing she had helped someone, and her generous spirit seemed to live on now in her boy.

_If I had been your mama, would you have turned out so decent?_

Suddenly, Control shouted out, " _Control, Control! Race time minus one minute! Race time minus one minute!_ "

The other four racers snapped to attention. Suddenly the door on the other side of the tunnel opened. Rusty finally entered the tubular enclosure as the green German engine led the assorted parade onto the race track.

" _In track one, Weltschaft the German engine with Joule the animal_   _truck!_ " Belle heard a rise of applause and cheers. " _In track two, Electra the electric engine with Volta the - wait, carriage change! Carriage change! With Pearl the observation car!_ "

Electra waved to the audience, and Pearl touched his arm lovingly. Immediately, Rusty's smoke seemed to blacken, and Belle tried not to cough.

" _In track three Rusty the steam chugger with Belle the sleeping car!_ "

* * *

Rusty staggered off the race track to clutch the guardrail for support. Belle released his couplings and braced her hands against her scratched knees, panting. Her limbs smelled of burnt wood, and her force of will alone kept her on her wheels.

"He cheated," Rusty choked, tearing off his helmet and letting it fall to the ground. "Electra cheated!"

"Ain't cheating if Control allows it," said Belle, sucking air through her teeth.

Rusty squeezed his eyes shut, and Belle could only imagine what he felt. Where wood had some minor, minor protection from an electric shock, the few parts of the iron engine which had not been touched by rust had been an all too excellent conductor for Electra's attack. The electric superstar had slipped past Rusty, gaining the lead and the second spot in the final race.

Belle gulped another breath and forced herself to straighten. She started to inch toward the guardrail, and just as her hand reached the striped bar, a booming voice echoed out: "Boy, what's this I hear?"

Belle lifted her head to see Jim, the Rockies, and the other two freight wagons rolling toward them from the area where pit crews could watch their racers. Jim braked beside his son with a heart-wrenching look, but Rusty pushed off the guardrail, his kind wide eyes now narrowed with bitterness.

"I lost, Poppa! Wasn't no Starlight Express!" His voice broke, and he clenched his teeth. "There ain't no power in steam no more."

"No!" yelled his father, but Rusty moved away.

"It's all over," Rusty said, pivoting toward a different track. "Steam ain't gonna get another chance tonight - or ever again."

Jim clenched his fist; a strange fire flared in his eyes. "I'm gonna show you that a steamer with the power within him can take on anything."

Rusty looked over his shoulder. "Oh, yeah? How?"

Jim responded by turning to the surrounding cars. "Who'll come with me?" he demanded. "Race behind me?" He spun toward the sleeper, his jaw set.

Belle took a step back, leaning against the guardrail. "No, Jim." Even if she had the strength, she wasn't about to help Jim McCoy kill himself on a fool's errand.

"Who else then?" the steamer asked, looking at the younger wagons.

"Poppa, you're mad!" cried Rusty, rolling toward his father. "You'll get yourself killed!"

Jim ignored his pleas. He pointed to his eldest nephew. "C'mon, Rocky!"

Rocky One shook his head. "Can't. I'm reserved. I got me a ride with the British train, Milton."

Jim turned to the other brothers, but the two boxcars backed away. "No offense, Poppa, but our fans wouldn't like to see us get beat," Rocky Two said.

"Okay, Flat-Top, you'll do!" said Jim, spinning toward the smaller truck, but the young man rolled away from him.

"No way! Not with you!" Flat-Top snarled. "You gotta be joking!"

Jim looked helplessly at his companions - and suddenly a high, soft voice with a Cockney accent spoke up, "I'll go with you, Poppa."

They all whirled around to see the large hopper fidgeting with his hands, looking at the steamer with both shy hope and loyalty. Jim gave him an awkward look. "Oh, Dustin," he sighed. "I may be strong, son, but..."

The hopper looked at his wheels. "Okay, I know. I'll be too slow."

Jim nodded. "It would take too long."

Dustin screwed up his face and stepped toward the steamer, clasping his hands together. "Please, Poppa, take me! I'm better than nothing, aren't I?"

The steamer grimaced. "Technically..."

Rusty grabbed his father's arm. "Control will only laugh at you if you try to show up at the next race," he said. "There's three trains in each heat, and they've got all three trains."

As if cued by an invisible stagehand, Control suddenly cried from his speakers: " _Control! Control! Cancellation, cancellation! The British train has been scrapped!_ "

Rocky One was the first to react. "Milton?!" he cried, clenching his fists. "What happened? Did somebody crash him?"

" _Space for late entry! Space for late entry!_ " continued Control, giving no other information.

Belle looked at the old steamer, looked at his faded paint and his wrinkles, and said softly, "Rusty needs you, Jimmy."

He glanced at her and then his rusted son. "That's why I gotta do this." He closed his eyes. "There's a light at the end of the tunnel," he quietly said with reverence, as if in prayer. He then nodded and opened his eyes, beckoning the hopper. "C'mon, Dustin!"

* * *

With his heavy hopper in tow, Jim had gone up against two of the world's finest racers: in track one, Turnov the electric Russian locomotive, who regularly rode the far-reaching rails of the Trans-Siberian Railway and who had pulled a lightweight repair truck who had replaced his original dining car; and in track two, Bobo the blue TGV whose model held the current world speed record and who had pulled the vintage, but experienced, Ashley the smoking car. Jim had been out of his league in every sense of the term.

Yet somehow he had won - when Turnov and Bobo had started fighting mere yards from the finish line, Jim had slipped past with Dustin and chugged toward the track marshal waving the checkered flag. Too late Bobo had pulled Ashley away from the Russian locomotive and chased the steamer, but the great TGV came in second.

Jim had looked ecstatic - right before he had broken down with an ice-cold boiler.

* * *

Belle stood against an electrical pole, keeping her back turned toward the lamppost to protect her eyes. The other vehicles congregated quietly in the small clearing, trying not to distract the red wagon who looked over the weary elderly steamer. C.B., a caboose with a friendly smile and a brown mustache, had joined their party while Rusty, Belle, and the freight trucks had watched the third heat, and he had followed them back to the quiet coal shed to look over the injured locomotive. The red truck had skills as a backyard mechanic, and he made himself of use as he inspected Jim's boiler and firebox.

Dejected, Dustin sat on the edge of the shadows, playing forlornly with a piece of aggregate, while the Rockies talked in hushed tones. Flat-Top had not come back with them. Rusty had disappeared into the night awhile ago. No doubt he felt the pressure of taking his ailing father's place in the final after the other trains of Wilton Yard had all but placed bets on his repeated failure, yet Belle could tell he had something else on his mind as he slunked away by himself. She had seen that hollow look in his eyes on several of the trains who came to spend a night in her company: the pain of unrequited love.

History had a way of repeating itself.

Movement from the caboose drew Belle's attention, and she saw C.B. get to his wheels. "If only I had come by earlier," the truck said with a shake of his head as he closed the round smokebox door on Jim's chest. "If I couldn't stop you, I could have at least gone with you instead of Dustin."

"The Starlight took care of me through it all," Jim said with a tired expression of gratitude. "No other way for an old man with an icy boiler and a hopper to win."

C.B. gave Jim a humoring smile, but as he collected his tools, Belle thought she heard him mutter, "If there is a Starlight, he should have saved you from your fool self."

C.B. rolled toward the boxcars as Jim climbed to his feet, taking it slow, but when he at last straightened, he creaked toward the hopper. Dustin instantly looked relieved, but guilt still brimmed his gray eyes. The steamer reached him and patted his large shoulder. "Good job, son," he grinned. "Couldn't have done without you."

Dustin ducked his head, blushing. "Thanks, Poppa."

Suddenly, a whoop came from the boxcars, who had just received the news of their uncle's recovery from C.B., and soon the Rockies flocked him, slapping his back and crowing about his accomplishments. Belle did not stop the smile that tugged upon her lips as she watched the family embrace each other. Suddenly, Jim turned his head and flashed her a grin. He excused himself from the wagons and rolled stiffly toward her.

She folded her arms, giving him a reproachful look. "So, you survived."

Jim's brown eyes twinkled. "The Starlight is good."

Belle rolled her eyes. "If you say so." As a young man he had not been so zealous, but it seemed a lifetime of hardship could push many toward religion to find answers. "Guess he didn't want you coming to the Starlight Station just yet."

The steamer sighed, and the light dimmed from his wrinkled face. "If I hadn't gone, Rusty wouldn't be in the final," he said quietly. "I'd do anything for that boy." He raised his eyes, and Belle saw a flicker of warmth. "Thanks for going with him. He woulda won. I know he woulda won if things had gone different."

"Still didn't really help him." Belle averted her gaze and gritted her teeth. "How can you even look at me, Jimmy?"

The locomotive shifted his weight, causing his pistons to creak. "I can't be bitter for the rest of my days, can I?" he asked softly.

"I would," admitted Belle. "You coulda won the championship if I hadn't gone with Malachie that night. You wouldn't have crashed with your other partner. You wouldn't have stopped racing."

Jim gyrated his limbs, causing him to roll forward a few inches, and she could see he was weighing his words. "And we woulda got hitched," he said, "and I woulda wanted children, and you woulda wanted to wait, and maybe Rusty wouldn't have gotten built." He gave her a sad smile. "I've had a lot of time to think about it, Belle, but I've made my peace. I couldn't ask for a better life than the one I got."

Her fingers curled into two fists. How could he be so calm? He could have been living in a comfortable retirement if he had won the race all those years ago. Rusty would have never been corroded, and Vanessa would not have developed termites. "I did love Malachie, you know," she said, trying to keep her voice from trembling. "I didn't marry him for his money, no matter what Priscilla and them said."

"I know," he answered kindly. "And I loved Nessie. She was a good woman and gave me many good years." He pumped one piston in that way she remembered, the one which said he was trying to address a difficult topic in a tactful way. "Whatever happened to Mr. Mallet?"

"The market crash. We lost everything." Belle folded her hands, and her fingertips instinctively went to where her wedding ring once sat. "We found his body at the bottom of a gorge one day. As his widow, I inherited his debt."

Jim nodded grimly. "What about your parents or your brothers? Couldn't they have helped?"

Belle laughed bitterly. "They were in a different state and had their own problems. I don't think they would have wanted anything to do with me if they knew what I had become to make ends meet." She lifted the left side of her red dress, which she had deliberately torn in half to attract the male eye to what she had to sell.

To her surprise, his rough hands suddenly clasped hers, and she raised her eyes to meet a look of deep affection she had not seen on a man since the last time Malachie had held her in his arms. "You always were a wonderful gal, Belle," he said gently. "You're still as pretty as the day I met you."

A lump rose in her throat before she could stop it. She squeezed his hands, staring deep into his eyes. All at once she felt an urge she had not known in many a moon; in the years since she had become a lady of the night, she had given everything of herself except one thing. No train could ever pay enough to claim it from her, and now she wanted to give it to Jim Watt McCoy freely - a kiss on the lips.

She began to move forward, tilting her head back the way she would in their courting days. He would have no idea what it would mean coming from her, but she could gladly give to him all the same.

 _He doesn't want a whore wife_.

She pulled away and released his hands. She took a step back, turning toward the track that led to the race arena. "We should probably see where your boy has gotten himself - "

A cry cut her off, and she and Jim looked down the track to see Rusty sprinting toward them at full speed. "Poppa, you gotta help!" shouted the younger engine, waving his arms.

"Slow down, son!" Jim said in confusion, holding out his hands to steady Rusty as he braked between the two older trains. "What's come over you?"

"Bobo, Poppa! Bobo!" Rusty cried. "Bobo's gone to Control to say he should be in the race 'cause he came in second behind you! And Greaseball agrees with him, and you  _know_  that means Control is gonna say yes!"

Jim's face contorted into a look of rage and determination. "C'mon, son - all of you," he ordered, waving his hands toward the Rockies, Dustin, and C.B.

Dustin hurriedly obeyed, linking behind the old man, and C.B. coupled behind him just as Belle clasped onto Rusty's holdings. The Rockies filed behind her, and together the two steamers charged into the night.

THE END

**Author's Note:**

> A big shout out to DyanaRoseJill's website, The Midnight Train Crossing, and her fan novelization of the original London show, without which this fic would not have been possible.
> 
> Anyone else get a Hosea & Gomer vibe from the Poppa/Belle ship? I also like how their relationship acts as a mirror to what Rusty and Pearl go through if you imagine them being sweethearts in their youths but went their separate ways before they reunite late in life.
> 
> Highball cocktail - this is a name for a variety of mixed drinks, but the term "highball" refers also to a type of old railroad signal. If the ball was "high," then the track was clear, and you were good to go. Fitting for those Prohibition trains to partake in.
> 
> Lindy hoppers - now I want to see hopper trucks dancing to 1928 jazz.


End file.
